


It's now or never isn't it?

by malixa



Series: Lost chances [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, PWP, Porn With Plot, Rimming, army ian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4757558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malixa/pseuds/malixa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey nods and Ian turns again, waits a beat between one step and another before Mickey calls out for him again. “Will you now?” He knows this is important, this moment, and he knows he can’t afford to half-ass this. It’s what he’s been waiting for, hoping for, fucking longing for – another chance to say what he couldn’t. “Will you stay? Please?” he says, ignoring the shakiness in his own voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So it's been like a year since I've posted anything, and since I'm still kind of struggling with 'On Your Wrist' I'm keeping myself busy with easier projects. Hopefully dispelling my fear of writing porn by just facing it head on.

When Mickey walks down to the Alibi after work that night, the last thing he thought he’d see was that familiar shade of red. But when he’s half way through his beer, the bar door swings open and in steps Ian, broader over the shoulders and taller than he was the last time Mickey saw him.

That familiar longing hits him like a fist to the gut and as he takes Ian in, he realizes that is just as bad as when he left. Ian’s a little tanner, and there are dog tags hanging around his neck, bulging a bit under the fabric of his shirt and Mickey can’t quite bring himself to look away because Ian is staring at him too. He looks a little taken a back, a little curious, a lot like conflicted. At least until Kevin jumps out from the bar and pulls Ian a one-shouldered hug and his face cracks into a grin.

“Welcome home, kid. Want a beer?” Kevin asks. He slaps Ian’s shoulder again and guides him to a stool. “It’s on the house,” Kevin insists, then fills up a glass and places a beer on the bar top.

Mickey overhears every question, every word and pause. None of it is meant for him but it’s good to hear Ian’s voice again and he can’t help but wait around just to listen to it. But when Ian mentions explosions and roadside bombs and suicide bombers, a sort of sick feeling rises in his throat. There are a hundred risks and Mickey can’t deal with hearing any of them. The thought makes him feel nauseous and homesick.

He flees to the bathroom and lets his head fall back on the stone cold wall behind him. It only takes a minute before the door opens and the air in the room seems to seep out when Ian locks the door behind him with a twist of his fingers.

Ian stalks forward and Mickey’s breath hitches in his throat. He wants to dispel the intensity, make a lewd joke or say something that’ll make it seem like he isn’t as scared as he is. He doesn’t; he still doesn’t know how to use his words properly around Ian. Not when it matters the most. There are so many unsaid words between them, from years ago, before Ian left for the army.

Ian looks the same and completely different at the same time. His hair has changed, just like the rest of him – it’s longer than it was when he left, messier, and Mickey imagines his own hands running through it and tugging. He’s broader around the shoulders, and Mickey sees himself running his hands over the wide expanse of them too, imagines marking the skin around Ian’s collarbone the way he never got to. And that says a lot doesn’t it? That he wants Ian to look like he’s his. That he wants Ian’s, only Ian’s fingerprints on his skin.

A long drawn out moment passes where Ian only looks at him, contemplating. It’s not soft when it happens, when Ian closes the distance between them and kisses him. It’s hard and a little rough and without any preamble, taking him completely off guard. Teeth catch on his lips and then there’s calloused hands on his jaw, tilting up to slot their mouths together. Ian’s hands are rough in a way Mickey doesn’t remember, but then again, he doesn’t remember the stubble on Ian’s jaw either, or the well above five inches Ian has on him.

He’s pretty sure his lips are bruising; it feels like it because Ian kisses him like he’s never going to get another chance at it, insistent as if Mickey could possibly turn him away. It’s all wet heat and Mickey can’t decide if this is a good idea or not because it sure as hell feels like it even though his head is telling him no. But he kisses back, forces the voices in head to shut up and sinks into it. Delves into it with all he has and gives as good as he gets.

They walk further into the room – tumble, really – and it feels a little claustrophobic, the way Ian cages him in like this but it feels a lot like safety too, and it feels good, so fucking good to finally be allowed to touch him like this – even if it’s harsh drags of skin and the scratch of stubble on his chin and a hard chest pressed up against his. It’s a lot better than his imagination, because he never got to feel this even if he’s envisioned it countless of times. Not always when getting off either, just whenever he felt masochistic enough to let his mind wander.

His back hits the sink sharply and Ian bites his lip hard so hard Mickey knows he’ll feel a welt there in the morning. Ian licks over it in apology, but Mickey couldn’t care less. The ache of it feels good, familiar.

Ian breaks the kiss briefly to hike him up against the sink and pulls Mickey’s legs around him, grinding against him. It’s heady and it makes him a little dizzy but he holds on, runs his hands up Ian’s neck and into his hair. When he tugs on the strands Ian groans against his lips and buck into the v of his hips. He gets a little lost in the sensation before he realizes the position they’re in won’t do much for them right now. Ian could probably hold him up and fuck him against the wall but he doesn’t have the patience for that for the time being.

He shoves Ian back a few steps to give himself some room but he doesn’t release his grip on Ian’s shirt, not even for a second. Doesn’t think he’d be able to even if he wanted to.

“You sure you want to do this?” Ian breathes against his lips and Mickey’s a little confused, wasn’t that the reason Ian came in here in the first place? He nods nevertheless and faces the wall, bends forward just a little to make them fit better together. And ever the Boy Scout, Ian has both a packet of lube and a condom in his pocket. If Mickey weren’t breathless he’d be fucking laughing. Ian rips the packet open, forgoes warming the lube and circles a finger around his hole just once before pushing in.

Mickey hips can’t help but jerk a little; it’s been a while since last time. But he doesn’t have much patience, never did, which he’s grateful Ian remembers when he quickly eases another finger in. Mickey’s grip on the sink tightens but he forces himself to relax as Ian stretches him, using all the tricks he knows. Ian spreads Mickey open with his other hand, and suddenly there’s a tongue, wet and warm tracing along his rim. Another finger slips in smoothly and he bites down a moan as well as he can. He can see Ian watch him in the mirror, paying attention to all of Mickey’s reactions.

“You good?” Ian asks and his voice is a little hoarse. It makes Mickey smile, to know that he did that, that he still has the ability to do that.

“Yeah,” he breathes and Ian pushes his fingers in more intently, fucking him on his fingers and Mickey starts shoving back with every push, urging him on. “Ian, _fuck_ me.” He says, and there’s a light laugh behind him, followed by a crinkle of the condom and Mickey can hear Ian slicking himself up. The anticipation is high in his throat when he spreads his legs as far as his jeans allow.

He bites his lip as Ian steps up between his legs, bears down when Ian lines up. The initial push hurts just a little but it’s easy to give into the feeling of hands on his hips and where Ian’s mouth is hot on his neck. Ian thrusts into him with deep, hard strokes that have Mickey dropping his elbows on the wall and closing his eyes.

The bar probably hears every damn groan and keen but Mickey can’t find it in him to give a fuck. He’s missed this, not just Ian inside of him, but Ian’s hands and mouth on his skin. With every drag and push of Ian’s cock inside him he feels something in him tighten a little and the angle Ian’s going at hits all the right places.

He opens his eyes, and can see Ian in the mirror, lips bitten red and swollen. He can feel Ian everywhere. There are warm fingers on the hollow of his hips, digging into the vulnerable skin there and Ian’s lips are hot on the back of his neck. With each Ian’s cock he can feel himself nearing, his own cock is hard throbbing and he’s close, already, but he needs both his hands to support himself.The pace is nearing on brutal and Mickey really needs to come soon but both his hands are needed to keep his weight up.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” Ian tells him, brushing by his ear.

Mickey closes his eyes again, feels Ian’s exhale on his neck, then Ian reaches up and takes one of Mickey’s hands in his and drives into him even harder. The hand on his clenches just a little too tightly and it hurts his knuckles but it’s distant, in the back of his mind because his head is currently filled with Ian and his pulsing cock.

His orgasm, when it comes, completely blindsides him, drags out him in the best kind away and leaves him shaking and shuddering. His back arches and it feels like it lasts a long time, he’s completely undone when Ian bites down on his shoulder hard and follows him into it. Mickey lets Ian ride his orgasm, teeth digging hard into his shoulder, fingertips leaving crevices in his skin. When he comes to, Ian pulls out slowly, ties off the condom and throws it in the direction of the bin.

They both pull their pants up, breathing heavily, and there should be words now, Mickey knows but nothing comes to mind. _‘Thanks for the great fuck, you want to do that again any time soon?’_ or _‘I haven’t seen you in a fucking year and a half but do you still feel the same way?’_ won’t do and he’s absolutely terrified of the answer being no.

He opens his mouth to say something he hasn’t thought out yet when Ian swoops in and kisses him, intent again, like he’s trying to say something Mickey doesn’t get. Ian leans their foreheads together and Mickey’s heartbeat is ratcheting up again because Ian doesn’t look like he wants to be here at all. The question he wants to ask never comes ‘cause Ian brushes a quick kiss to his temple, too soft and it feels too much like a good bye. He brushes another kiss to Mickey’s cheekbone and doesn’t quite meet Mickey’s eyes when he looks up again.

“I should get going,” he says and Mickey nods dejectedly because what the fuck did he expect right? Why would Ian want to stay anyway? He swallows and can’t help himself from fucking blurting the question that’s been on his tongue for the last year and half. “Would you have stayed?” he asks, voice a little shaky. “If I’d asked you to, would you have stayed? That day,”

Ian stops almost at the doorway, turns and bites his lip where it’s already red and swollen. “No, I don’t think so, I think I needed to get out for a while.”

Mickey nods and Ian turns again, waits a beat between one step and another before Mickey calls out for him again. “Will you now?” He knows this is important, this moment, and he knows he can’t afford to half-ass this. It’s what he’s been waiting for, hoping for, fucking longing for – another chance to say what he couldn’t. “Will you stay? Please?” he says, ignoring the shakiness in his own voice.

Ian turns; leans momentarily into the doorway and Mickey can’t tell what he’s thinking from the look on his face. He used to be able to read every fucking thought on Ian’s face and now he can’t tell what the hell he’s thinking. Ian waits a second before he meets Mickey’s eyes. His eyelashes flutter briefly but he meets Mickey’s gaze head on even if it doesn’t look like he wants to. “I’m getting deployed. My flight leaves in the morning.”

Mickey breathes out and closes his eyes briefly, as if he refuses to see it he won’t. But his heart is fucking sinking in his chest and there’s no way he can ignore that.

“That’s anywhere between 90 days and 15 months,” Ian says.

Mickey can’t tell if that’s a promise he’ll be back or not. Ian can’t either. No one can and the familiar feeling of fear sinks back into him.

Ian takes a step closer but he keeps his distance. “I just came back home for a few days, I wasn’t…I never planned this.”

Mickey wants to fucking cry because Ian doesn’t get to do that, and he wants to fucking cry because Ian just did and now he’s going to leave. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t let any emotion show until he hears the door swing shut. He looks up and catches his reflection in the mirror, he can barely see himself. His hand clench without his consent and his fist swing through the air and the little he can see of himself in the mirror breaks into a million tiny pieces. Fitting isn’t it?

The floor is dirty beneath him but he doesn’t have a care in the world, he just sinks down, back to the wall, bloodied fist hanging loosely over his raised up knee. There’s a pathetically hopeful part of him that hopes this was all a fragment of his mind and that will all fade when he wakes up in the morning. But the ache of a broken knuckle feels pretty real and the ache in his lip and the incoming bruises on his hips. Just the feeling of hurt fucking everywhere is too real.

He’s glad his used to the ache in his chest, that it didn’t fade along with the little trail of hope he felt. He probably couldn’t have handled that too.

The wall feels cold when he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He licks his lips and tastes nothing but salt and copper.


	2. Give Me A Second Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so I guess I can say it's been a while? Sorry that I haven't added in this part sooner, but I was feeling uninspired and I didn't know where I wanted to take this story. I know now though, so hopefully updates will be coming quicker now.

Ian doesn’t write him any letters, but he does write Mandy. Mickey watches them trickle in now and then, _Amanda Milkovich_ written on each and every one of them. He doesn’t ask her what they say, or if Ian is doing well. As long as they keep on coming, he’ll at least have the comfort of knowing that Ian’s alive. But then one day, weeks later one arrives for him.

 

“Letter for you.” Mandy says, letting the letter skid across the table.

 

It’s from Ian. Mickey would recognize that scraggly chicken scratch everywhere. Ignoring the toast on his plate, he gets up and grabs the letter, pretending that he can’t feel Mandy’s eyes on him. Locked away in his room, he quickly lights up a cigarette and opens the letter with hands he pretends doesn’t shake.

 

_Mickey_

_I wasn’t sure if I should write you or not, or if you’d even want me to. For the time being, I’m stationed at Fort Leonard Wood in St. Robert, Missouri. It’s not as cold as Chicago, which makes drills almost bearable, even at 6 a.m. In about a week’s time, I’ll be shipped off overseas. Don’t know where I’ll end up yet for certain. You don’t have to, but if you want to, you can write me back. I would like it if you did. Anytime. I can call if you prefer. The phone is almost always busy though, a lot of the guys here have family to call home to, but say the word and I’ll call you when I get the chance. If you want me to of course, if you’d rather I fuck off just let me know and I will. I hope you’re doing okay. Mandy said you were fine, but I’d like to hear it from you too. I’m sorry about last time. ~~I miss~~_

_I miss you._

_\- Ian_

 

Mickey reads it once, twice and then once more. Carefully he folds the letter back in the envelope and places it in one of the cubbies in his headboard, tucked beneath a few bills he knows no one in the house will touch voluntarily.

 

Days pass before he makes up his mind. The last time he saw Ian was a few weeks ago, but before that it had been years. In that time, his feelings hadn’t faded one bit. After last time, after laying himself so bare only to be hurt, he’s not sure he can do it again. Because writing Ian will without a doubt be proof that he cares about him. If he didn’t, why would he bother, right?

 

After a week of debating it with himself, Mickey decides to write. It’s an awkward letter, which isn’t surprising. He hasn’t written a letter since an assignment in elementary school, when he still gave a shit, but he decides to send it anyway.

 

_Ian._

_I’ll write but I don’t really have a lot to say. Kev got me a job at the Alibi. It’s okay, except I see your dad a lot and it’s kinda hard not to punch his annoying fucking face in all the time, by the end of the night someone usually ends up doing it for me though. I don’t know if anyones told you but V’s knocked up again. Kev won’t shut about it and it’s driving me fucking nuts. And I’m fine. Mandy is fine too but I guess you already knew that since you talk to each other._

_Mickey_

 

While he waits for Ian’s reply, he goes about his days like he usually would. He wipes down the counters whenever Kev asks him to and flips chairs, throws out a few drunkards now and again, mostly he just drinks and smokes. More than he should probably. Mandy doesn’t ask him about the letter, but she does give him amused glances whenever he goes to get the mail which he’s started doing now, everyday. It only takes two weeks. Fifteen days actually. Not that Mickey’s counting or anything.

 

_Hey Mickey_

_It’s nice to hear from you. I almost started worrying that you set fire to my letter and were never going to talk to me again. I wouldn't have blamed you if you did. I really am sorry about last time. I shouldn’t have ~~kissed you like~~ started something when I knew I was leaving. ~~I know you were hoping that I’d~~ That wasn’t fair. Anyway, Kabul is hot as fuck. It’s my second time here, but I just can’t get used to it. Apparently, the averages here and in Chicago aren’t too far from each other, but it doesn’t feel like it. Chicago summers have nothing on Kabul in July. It’s just too hot and too dry._

_V’s pregnant again? That’s great. Kev told me they were trying for another kid, actually, he told me a little too much about it so I’ve been avoiding the subject, but that’s awesome. When you see him can you tell him congrats from me? And feel free to punch Frank anytime you like. He probably deserves it anyway._

_I took a photo. It’s hard to tell if it’s dawn or dusk cause they kinda look the same, but it’s what I wake up to every morning._

_I’m glad you’re doing okay. I miss you._

_\- Ian_

 

Ian’s written that twice now, ‘I miss you’. Mickey doesn’t like it. Someone is reading this over, aren’t they? To check for conspiracies and shit, or to make sure people aren’t spilling military secrets or whatever? The thought makes him go cold all over. He doesn’t want someone reading their letters, especially not when Ian writes shit like that. Mickey’s name is on there and all he had to do to know what Ian had crossed out was to put it up against the window. Kissed him like what? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

 

He takes longer to write this back time, unsure about what to write.

 

_You think Kabul is hot? That’s only because you’re missing the heat wave. Old folks are dying like flies over here and Kev’s installed about a hundred fans around the bar. Not that it does anything but spread the heat and smell of sweat around. He said thanks by the way, for the congratulations. They’re having triplets. V got a hold of some hormones somewhere and I guess they kicked in a little too good. I’ll keep writing you, but only if you stop writing that kind of shit Ian. What the fuck? Your dad keeps shooting me looks and asking for orange juice and jack daniels, like it means something? What the hell is that about?_

_Mickey_

 

The days pass slowly while Mickey waits for Ian’s next letter. To distract himself from going insane, he decides to pick up more shifts at the bar. It’s pretty fucking boring most days, but he kind of likes it. It’s better than most of other jobs he’s had before. And unlike selling drugs, it’s something he can actually put on his resume. He’s been thinking about getting his GED, but he doesn’t know if he ever will. He’s not sure if there’s a point.

 

He’s hung up the picture Ian sent. It’s not too personal and it doesn’t show his face or anything, so Mickey decided it was safe. Sometimes he looks at it and wonders what Ian’s doing. If he’s happy about where he is in life. It was always Ian’s dream – to be a solider. To fight for his country and all that. Mickey thinks it’s dumb as fuck, but at least Ian seems happy to do it. Sometimes, Mickey wishes that he felt the same need to something. Maybe he’d be doing something else than sweeping floors and serving drinks if he did.

 

By the time Ian’s letter finally comes, Mickey had almost started to worry it wasn’t going to.

 

_Mick_

_Not sure when this letter is going to reach you. We’re relocating, which means that letters take longer to arrive. I would have called, but you never said if you were okay with it and I don’t have your number anymore. If you think the bar smells like sweat, you should try sharing a room with eleven other guys in the desert. It’s pretty rank. Luckily, we’re getting out of here tonight. I heard about V from Fiona, holy shit. Guess that means a lot of crappy jobs for a while, trying to feed three babies._

_I don’t know what kind of “shit” you’re referring to by the way. Sorry to cut this kind of short, but I need to go. Talk to you later._

_I miss you._

_\- Ian_

 

That little shit knows exactly what Mickey is talking about. He just doesn’t care. To show Ian exactly how he feels about that, he doesn’t respond for two weeks. It’ll take a long time before it arrives and it sort of makes Mickey pleased. To know that he has a bit of control in this situation.

 

_Ian,_

_You know exactly what I’m talking about you dick. Stop it or I’m not writing back after the next one._

_Mickey_

 

The response is quicker this time.

 

_Mickey,_

_As far as I know ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ was repealed years ago. Besides, no one here gives a shit. Sometimes at night I can hear guys that swear up and down that they’re not gay getting it on with other guys in their bunks. It’s not unusual to get a reach around in the shower either. It’s been known to happen, some of the guys even like watching. Some people are dicks, but most of them don’t really care as long as you have their back._

_There are a few other guys that are out here at the base too, including this guy called Robbie, who’s so big that no one would mess with him anyway. He used to be a body builder, but now he mostly just bakes and knits. At first I wondered why someone would need wool socks in the desert, but it gets surprisingly cold here at night. I just wished the pair he gave me weren’t yellow and purple. They’re really fucking ugly. I don’t have the heart to tell him though. I’m pretty sure he’s colorblind, but no one has said anything to him yet._

_I’ve included a picture of some of the guys I’m stationed with down here. The big blond on the right is, yes, you guessed it, Robbie. Next to him, the short guy with the skinned head and tattoos is Steve. On his left, the girl with the Afro is Natasha. Then there’s me, which I hope you spotted on your own and lastly, the one with the curly hair is Chuck._

_I miss you._

_Ian_

 

Mickey doesn’t even know what to respond to that letter. He’s angry, he realizes. “It’s been known to happen”…what the fuck does that mean? Is Ian getting hand jobs and blowjobs left or right, or what? Is he one of the guys that would do that? Probably, Mickey realizes and crumples the letter. He’s tempted to throw it in the trash, but he can’t make himself do it. Instead he straightens out the letter and reads it again.

 

There are other guys at the base that are out, so what? Does that mean that they’re better than Mickey? Because they’re not ashamed, because they’d hold Ian’s hand and be proud about it?

 

Mickey spends the rest of the day trying to think up a response. He doesn’t want to be as outright as Ian, because he doesn’t think he has the right to decide what Ian does with his dick anyway. He never has, really. They’ve never been exclusive, never even discussed it. Once, when they had been out of condoms, Ian had asked him if he was fucking someone else. Mickey had told him the truth, that he wasn’t. And when he’d asked Ian back, Ian had said no too. But that hadn’t meant anything had it? Because a few weeks later Ian had still signed up and now he was apparently fucking everyone at the stupid fucking base.

 

Mickey doesn’t respond to the letter and he doesn’t hang Ian’s picture on the wall either. Instead he keeps it in his nightstand, under a stash of old junk, hidden away. He takes it out and looks at it sometimes and wishes things were different. Afterwards he usually jerks off to thoughts of Ian and gets black out drunk. The last two weeks he usually just skips the unsatisfactory orgasm and just gets drunk.

 

“Mickey?”

 

Mickey groans, burying his head under his pillow to get as far away from Mandy’s shrill voice as he can.

 

“I know you’re in there.” She shouts. “I’m coming in, so you better not have your fucking junk out.”

 

She jerks the door open and sighs when she sees the state of him.

 

“Why haven’t you written Ian yet?”

 

Mickey keeps his head under the pillow and doesn’t answer.

 

“He’s asking about you.”

 

Mickey hears her move to sit on the edge of the bed, the squeak of the old mattress is painfully loud.

 

“I think he’s getting worried.”

 

She sighs again.

 

“Would you just fucking answer his letter? He asked me if you were okay and I didn’t even know what to say. When the hell have you ever been okay?” she mutters. “You reek by the way, you should take a shower.”

 

Mickey probably should, but he’s not going to. “Get out.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready to go down to the bar?”

 

“Get the fuck out, Mandy.” He shouts, words muffled through the pillow.

 

“Alright, Jesus fucking Christ, Mickey. You can stay here and rot for all I care.”

 

She slams the door when she leaves and Mickey clutches at his head, cursing everything.

 

—

 

“You look like shit.” Kev tells him when he finally drags his ass down to the Alibi.

 

“Thanks.” Mickey mutters.

 

“You sick or something? You can go home if you need to. It’s a slow night tonight.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

Kev shoots him a wary look. “Alright, but you better not be contagious. I can’t afford not to be working right now.”

 

“I’m just hung over, Kev. Please just shut the fuck up.”

 

“Don’t get salty with me, sweetheart. I’m just asking. Is that any way to be talkin’ to your superior by the way?” Kev asks, grinning.

 

Mickey rolls his eyes and goes to fetch the broom. He’d rather sweep the floor right now than be anywhere close to Kev. He’s too goddamn chatty to be around and in a too good mood.

 

The night goes by slowly. It’s a slow night, just like Kev said, but Mickey relies on his paycheck now that his father’s in jail. He’ll be locked for life though, so Mickey can’t bring himself to be pissed about it. If anything, he’s relieved. He’ll never have to his father’s face again and that’s pretty much as good as it gets.

 

“So.” Kev says as they’re preparing to lock up. “Talked to Ian lately?”

 

“No? Why would I?”

 

“Well, I don’t know.” Kev answers, too casually. “Maybe because you fucked in my bathroom and when you got out you were bleeding all over yourself? You’re a chatty drunk, you know that?”

 

Mickey freezes, the chair he was about to flip to put upside down still in his grip.

 

“I don’t care you know.”

 

“Good for you.” Mickey mutters and sets the chair down too hard.

 

“I’m just saying, man.”

 

“Well, don’t. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

 

Kev makes a noise of assent. “Maybe I don’t, but you’re sounding kind of angry for someone that supposedly doesn’t care.”

 

“He’s fucking other people.” Mickey says, keeping his back turned away from Kevin.

 

“So what?”

 

Mickey doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Are you angry because you don’t want him to fuck other people? Because it might be a good idea to tell him that, but then again I don’t know what I’m talking about, right?”

 

“You don’t.” Mickey says and that’s the end of that.

 

—

 

Months go by. The summer heat fades into the muggier, fall kind of heat and Mickey trudges on. He fucks one of the guys that comes in one night, in the bathroom of the bar, just to prove a point and ignores the look Kevin shoots him when they get out. He feels like shit afterwards.

 

The guy comes back in the next week, clearly hoping for a repeat, but Mickey ignores him. He leaves in huff after half an hour and Mickey ignores the look Kevin sends him that time too. He really shouldn’t be going around thinking he knows everything.

 

Ian sends him another letter, just the one, but Mickey doesn’t open it. He keeps it next to the others and squashes the urge to open it whenever he feels like he wants to. Mandy doesn’t ask him to write back to Ian and just dumps the bills at him whenever they come. He’s stopped getting the mail.

 

—

 

“Ian got shot.” Mandy tells him one afternoon.

 

Panic swells in Mickey’s chest and in must show, because she hurries to explain.

 

“He’ll be okay, won’t get sent back or anything. It was just a graze. On his shoulder.”

 

A graze. A fucking graze.

 

They’re miles apart and Ian still finds a way to get to him.

 

After that, Mandy starts giving him updates. Just random little things that she keeps telling him, even when he keeps ignoring it.

 

“Ian is doing fine”

 

“He’s getting better.”

 

“He’s healing.”

 

“He’ll be fit for combat again soon.”  


“They’re heading to another base tomorrow.”

 

“He says that they’re going on an infiltration mission. Might be a while until I hear from him again.”

 

“Ian’s back on base.”

 

“He asked about you.”

 

“He said he missed you.”

 

Fall bleeds into winter and snow starts to fall from the sky. Mandy starts leaving the letters Ian sends her on the kitchen table. She must have realized that Mickey was sneaking into her room to read them. Every time there’s a new one he reads it, but he still hasn’t opened the one addressed to him. The one he keeps under the bills in his nightstand. It’s not until December that Mandy gives him an update that makes him freeze.

 

“Ian is coming home.” She says casually. “Just for a couple of weeks.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Okay.”

—

 

Ian’s been home for a week already and Mickey hasn’t seen him once. He hasn’t been over at the house. Instead, Mandy goes to the Gallagher’s. He’s not sure if it’s because Ian has refused to come over or because Mandy has asked him not to. He’s starting to doubt that he’ll see Ian at all and isn’t sure whether he’s more relieved or upset about it. Then one night, when he’s at work, Ian strolls in. Mickey is suddenly reminded of that gutted feeling from last time when Ian pushed through that very same door. He’s not wearing his army fatigues this time. Just a regular old Henley under his winter coat and a pair of jeans. He looks tired, Mickey thinks, and forces himself to look away.

 

He hears Kevin walk over and greet him. Hears them talk and the thunk of a beer glass on the bar, the rustling sound of Ian’s clothes as he sits down. As he serves drinks and wipes the bar down, he listens to them talk. He drinks in every word and every story that Ian tells, ashamed of how desperate he is to hear Ian’s voice again.

 

Ian stays for hours and Mickey doesn’t look over once. He stays behind the bar for longer than he usually does; unable to move in case Ian is gone by the time he comes back. By the end of the night, Ian finally approaches.

He sits down right in front of Mickey and Mickey can’t help but look up. Ian’s changed. Mickey had expected him too, but it’s still jarring. He has a bit of a tan, even in December and more freckles than Mickey can remember ever seeing on his face. There are a few, small and thin scars on his right cheek, almost hidden beneath stubble. White with how old they are. If he didn’t know Ian’s face as well as he does, he thinks he might not have noticed.

 

“Can we talk?” Ian asks.

 

Mickey looks over to Kev at the end of the bar, who grins at him and gives him two thumbs up. Mickey rolls his eyes at his dumb face.

 

“Yeah.” He answers.

 

He doesn’t bring Ian to the bathroom this time. He doesn’t want a repeat of last time. Instead he brings Ian behind the bar and through the backdoor, into the alley. It’s cold and Mickey’s shaky breaths turn into white clouds. He hears Ian’s boots crunching on the snow.

 

“You stopped writing me back.”

 

“Yeah.” Mickey says.

 

He turns to look at Ian and takes a moment to drink him in while he has the chance. Ian looks to be doing the same exact thing.

 

“Why?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Of course it does. Did I say something?”

 

“No.” Mickey lies.

 

They stare at each other for a moment. Ian takes a few steps closer, breaching the distance between them,

 

“I missed you.” He says.

 

Mickey can’t look at him. “Don’t say that.”

 

“Why?” Ian asks, and Mickey doesn’t need to be looking at him to know what face he’s making right now.

 

 _Because you don’t mean it_ , he doesn’t say.

 

“Mickey.” Ian says and it’s a plea, but Mickey can’t look at him.

 

He closes is eyes as if he can shut everything out if he just wants it badly enough and almost wants to cry when he feels Ian’s hand on his cheek. His fingers are warm on his Mickey’s cold cheek.

 

“Please look at me.”

 

Mickey opens his eyes, but keeps his gaze down, on Ian’s chest. Ian steps even closer, his shoes bumping into Mickey’s. Gently, as if Mickey is going to run away he leans down kisses the corner of Mickey’s mouth. Mickey lets him. Stubble rasps against his skin and Mickey breathes in, smells the scent of him, just Ian. He tilts his head a little and Ian takes it for the invitation it is and kisses him again, deeply this time. Hands come up to cradle his face and Ian’s chest press up against his own. Without his permission, Mickey’s fingers curl into the collar of Ian’s jacket and he kisses back, tugging Ian as close as he can get him.

 

Ian makes a small, muffled noise against his mouth and presses Mickey back against the brick wall of the alley. His tongue slips into Mickey’s mouth and his hands slide down to Mickey’s hips, to grip his ass. _Fuck_ , how Mickey has missed this. He tugs on Ian’s jacket and Ian gets it, shucks it off and drops it straight on the ground of the filthy alley. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, Mickey thinks, even as he continues to kiss Ian. He was supposed to turn him down. Mickey is pretty sure it’s something he’ll never be able to do.

Ian kisses a path down his chin and to his neck, bites and sucks the sensitive spot behind Mickey’s ear. No one else knows how it makes heat shoot straight to his groin, just Ian. Because Ian is the only one who has done this, who Mickey has let touch him like this. He moans as Ian sure hand finds the bulge of his cock and rubs him through his jeans, relieving some of the tension. With a twist of his hand, Ian has opened his pants and is tugging them down with his boxers, freeing Mickey to the cold. He takes him in hand and strokes Mickey’s cock, brushing his thumb over the head where precome has already started to well. Mickey moans again, unable to stop himself.

 

He pulls on Ian’s jeans, feeling all to naked and wanting Ian to be too. When Ian hands leave him to pulls his own jeans down, he almost whines but manages to refrain. He doesn’t want Ian’s hands to ever leave him again.

 

“Wait, just a sec.” Ian says and bends down to pick up his jacket. From one of the pockets he pulls out a couple of packets of lube, crinkling in his hands.

 

“You brought lube?” Mickey asks incredulously. “Did you plan this?”

 

“Did I plan to fuck you in an alley? No, I just haven’t used this jacket since last time I was home.”

 

Last time he was home, Mickey thinks, bitterness tainting the swell of emotions in his chest. Ian embracing him distracts him and he gives himself over it to it, to Ian. Lets his slicked fingers slide between his cheeks to rub at his hole, invites it with a moan and by spreading his legs for easier access. Ian sucks at his neck as he fingers him open, his other hand stroking his cock. It’s an awkward angle, but Mickey doesn’t want to move, not yet.

 

It’s been a while. Aside from that one ill-advised fuck in the Alibi bathroom, Mickey hasn’t had sex since Ian left. He hasn’t gotten fucked since than either, so it takes some time, but Mickey urges Ian on, wanting him inside as soon as possible. He nudges Ian away for some space to move and turns to face the wall, bracing his ands on the cold bricks.

 

Ian doesn’t have to ask if he’s sure. He slicks himself up and Mickey braces himself for it, and despite the size of Ian’s cock and the hurried preparation, he slides in easily. A deep breath tickles the back of Mickey’s neck and he squeezes around Ian, just to feel him.

 

Ian groans in response and starts moving, slow and short strokes until Mickey is stretched enough. His hands grip Mickey’s hips hard, nails digging into the skin of his hip bones and Mickey loves it, loves that Ian is marking him up. He starts moving with his hips, grinding back on Ian’s cock. It pulls a groan out of Ian and he starts fucking Mickey deeper, hard and slow. His mouth is on the back of Mickey’s neck, sucking and biting the sensitive skin. Mickey closes his eyes and basks in having Ian on him again, _inside_ of him. When he can’t take the slow rhythm anymore he reaches back and digs his fingers into Ian’s ass, jerks him closer. He feels Ian’s soft laughter on his neck, but Ian does as asked and fucks into him harder, until Mickey has to brace both his hands on the wall.

 

“ _Fuck_ , I’ve missed this.” Ian murmurs. “Missed you.”

 

Mickey doesn’t say it back, but one of Ian’s hands is braced on the wall too and Mickey grabs it, lets Ian entwine them. The rough brick scrapes his fingers with each thrust, but Mickey likes it. Likes having that little bit of pain paired with the pleasure inside of him. He doesn’t think he can come like this, despite being so close already, but he can’t bear to let Ian’s hand go and he needs the other one to brace himself, he can’t get a hand on his cock like this. A little whine escapes him and Ian makes a sympathetic noise in return.

 

“I love you.”

 

The words are whispered right into Mickey’s ear and he lets out punched out little noise, a gasp. In the depths of his mind, Mickey has thought about Ian saying those three little words to him. The endless of ways Ian could have told him that – over coffee in the morning, whispered into his ear at night, with his head between Mickey’s thighs or like this, while he was fucking him like he never wanted to let go. He adjusts his grip in Ian’s hand and his knuckles scrape against brick. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he feels a tear run down his cheek. Feels it growing cold.

 

“Fuck, I love you.”

 

Mickey comes hard, his breaths leaving him in shaky pants. It last longer like this, coming untouched and his come splatters against the wall in front of him. He’s almost too sensitive, but Ian continues to fuck him and it drags his orgasm out. Leaves his knees shaky and his head woozy. Behind him Ian stutters, fucking in three times before he buries deep. He’s panting against the back of Mickey’s neck, fingers digging deep into Mickey’s hip.

 

They rest like that for a moment, in the silence of the alley. The sweat cools on their skin and their breaths slow. Mickey doesn’t want to let go yet. He feels Ian squeeze his fingers and he leans back a little to take his weight off Mickey. Mickey has always hated this part. The clean up. This used to be the part when Ian got off him and stopped touching him, kept his hands to himself. Like Mickey always told him to do, no matter what his mind shouted at him. This time, Ian’s hand migrates from his hip to around his waist, his thumb stroking the soft skin. He places a soft kiss to the side of Mickey’s neck, then another just below it.

 

Eventually, Ian pulls out and Mickey winces. Ian throws the condom somewhere into the alley, which Kevin will probably complain about when he happens upon it, but Mickey couldn’t give a fuck. He pulls his pants up and hears Ian do the same. He turns around to Ian pulling his jacket on and watches, feeling weird about how weird this _isn’t._

 

He shouldn’t let Ian grab his scraped up hand. He shouldn’t let Ian lead him into the street. Shouldn’t let Ian follow him home and into the dark house. Shouldn’t let Ian follow him into his room and into his bed, but he does. Mickey takes Ian _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I appreciate comments! (Don't be a dick though).

**Author's Note:**

> There might be a second part to this, that won't end as angsty as this, I promise. And please do not hesitate to reach out and correct me on anything.


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